


Falling Off the Rim of the World

by shihadchick



Category: U2
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-08
Updated: 2011-08-08
Packaged: 2017-10-22 09:27:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shihadchick/pseuds/shihadchick





	Falling Off the Rim of the World

Just another fuck.

Another warm body. Slick with sweat, sticky and salt and heat, slipping away under your fingers. The room reeks of sex, the musky tang of it thick and almost palpable, filling your nostrils, clinging to the back of your throat, tasting as much as anything. Although...

/flash/

Solid flesh presses against the roof of your mouth, the velvet skin tarred with perspiration, streaked with a mixture of your saliva and milky pre-come. Your lips slide easily back and forth, up and down, an irregular rhythm to match the thud of your pulse.

Suck hard, inhale, drag your mouth back up. Lick slowly, languorously, all-the-time-in-the-world-so-we're-taking-it around the swollen head. Exhale. Warm breath almost cool against over-heated flesh. Inhale. Run your lips along the underside, pausing to feel the frantic beat of the pulse in the vein there, tiny hammers striking your bottom lip.

A tiny part of you wonders what you're forging here.

Breathe out again, tiny puffs of air fighting, pushing back against insistent blood and bodily needs. Straighten up. Deep breath. Take him deep. Shoulders back, chest expanding as he bucks in your mouth, fingers insinuated deeply into your hair,  
breathing in and out and in and out until you lose count, lose track as bitter fluid coats your lips and tongue as he loses control.

/and back/

No wonder you taste sex. Taste him.

You brought him off with your mouth alone. It's been a long time since you've done that for anyone. You fuck them, or, if  
they've been very good, let them fuck you. You say thank you. You leave. You don't bring them home.

You usually don't even know their name. Or at least, nothing more than a first name.

Let alone how old they are. Where they come from. What they do.

...what their favourite colour- number- movie- drink- song- is.

Drink. That sounds like a good idea about now. Delay consideration, drown memories under the bite of the alcohol, get them before the undertow catches you. Your hand closes around the neck of the bottle, and you're reaching for a tumbler before you  
remember.

That this is how it started.

Because you don't do this any more.

No more blurring, no more fuzzy disconnection from the razor edges of existence, no more liquid portcullis to drop when the hordes invade your space.

Your hand slips from the bottle, the condensation dewing unnoticed on your fingers as you sink into the nearby couch. And sink is the right word; the plush upholstery, sueded leather, filled with something - 'squashy' is as near as you can get to a  
description - swallows you, and you have a feeling that sober or no, getting up again may be a challenge.

It's hard to care.

You lean back, aiding and abetting the digestion of your person by the furniture, your eyes squeezing tightly closed, one hand coming up in habitual gesture to brush over the closed lids. Pain blooms above your cheekbone as a careless movement  
presses a fingertip over sensitive tissue.

He hit you.

You remember that, too.

Not in the midst of passion, nor anything so singularly romantic. Not romantic, you correct yourself. Stereotyped.

Before your mouth was around vulnerable portions of his anatomy, before you were naked, before you'd even kissed him, as a matter of fact.

It was right before you'd raised a forbidden glass to your lips, aching and burning inside, chasing the cup of Lethe however dilute it would be.

The glass had fallen from shocked and suddenly nerveless fingers, bouncing onto the expensive carpet, the amber liquid soaking into the fibres of the wool. Not that you realised this, because the disappointment in the blue eyes staring daggers at you then was suddenly all you could see.

Disappointment.

You could have dealt with anger. Shouted back. Thrown hurtful words and possibly even lighter and satisfyingly breakable parts of the bar.

Accusations could have been shrugged off and excused and ignored.

Seeing that wounded look made you feel...

That was the problem, actually. It made you feel.

/flash/

Feelings are complicated. Feelings are messy. Feelings are important and trivial and rend you into shredded pieces.

You don't like dealing with them.

Sublimate.

React.

Swallow them down. Keep them out of the light. Swallow the words crowding at his lips with your mouth. Sweep the tip of your tongue across his lips and shatter the protests forming there. Twine your tongue around his, coax the unspoken lecture back into the recesses of his mind. Drag your teeth across the full bottom lip and forget everything you were aiming for in the heady intoxication of touch.

Zero turns into full-steam-ahead in an eye blink, and whimpering moans punctuate not only the kisses but hands wandering across previously forbidden territory, darting under clothes, between silk and cotton and skin, gleefully seeking dragons.

A moment frozen in amber, the setting sun washing across the room unnoticed as clothing drifts to the ground, whispered demands harsh and needy in the stillness of the room, as the two of you are illuminated, silhouetted lazily against the encroaching darkness. Pleas flow indiscriminately now, murmured yeses and smug sub-vocalisations of pleasure, the silken rasp of skin against skin, of tongue against lip, sucking, mewling, feasting.

As you sink to the bed, barely aware of your actions, the last thing you can think, the lifebuoy you're clinging to with both hands... Is that this is just a fuck.

Just another fuck.

Exhale. Air hissing out of you now, tearing through you, pulled along with the throaty moan as he buries himself in your body, as you wail and thrash, pleasure stealing through every sense.

And for a split second you wonder what you'll do if he's not.


End file.
